


Helping Hands

by leoben



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Cliche, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, sap, there's a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6290263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoben/pseuds/leoben
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt from gordlock-fanart. Thank you, hon, I hope I did it justice!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helping Hands

“Goddammit, Jim,” Harvey grumbled as he jiggled his key in the lock. “You're lucky I took up drinking again because no one else was gonna save your damn ass in that shithole.”

Jim squinted his eyes at the light flooding the apartment and headed towards the kitchen, leaning against the counter. “I'm fine, Harvey, Christ. It was one punch.”

“Yeah, I once knew a guy who got punched just once,” Harvey called from the bathroom. “Hit his head just like you did and Bam! Died on the spot.” He swore under his breath as he nearly tripped. “Dammit, Kitty, I'm walking here!”

Jim made a face and sipped at a can of Coke. “Look, I'm fine, see? I'm walking and talking. I appreciate your concern, but,” he stumbled to the door, “My cot awaits. See ya tomorrow, Harv--” He grunted as his arm was jerked away from the doorknob.

Harvey tightened his hand around Jim's wrist. “Where do you think you're going?”

Jim wavered on his feet and glanced down at Harvey's other fist clenching his jacket collar. He looked back up, concentrating hard. “Home. Let me go, Harvey,” he growled.

Harvey almost laughed. Fucking stubborn.... “Nope. You're gonna let me clean you up and make sure you don't have a concussion--” Jim's eyes began to roll at this and Harvey had finally had had it, pulling at his collar. “Get your fucking ass on the couch or so help me, Jimbo,” he barked.

Jim stood there, breathing hard for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something. Instead, he removed Harvey's hands and plopped down on the couch, very nearly pouting.

“That's better,” Harvey mumbled. “Lie down.” Jim did as he was told and Harvey got to work cleaning up the blood from his face. At least his nose had stopped bleeding, he thought. “What did I do to get partnered with you,” he complained, putting pressure on the wound.

Jim stayed silent, his breath tickling Harvey's arm below where his sleeve was rolled up. Harvey stared at the gauze. “I mean, you trying to get yourself killed or are you just that much of an idiot when you're drunk? Picking a fight with the biggest guy in the bar, and don't interrupt me, because I don't wanna hear your sorry excuse—you're lucky he didn't have a knife, and for gods' sake, Kitty, Jim's hair is not food!”

He realized he'd been the only one talking (read: yelling) for awhile and finally looked down to find the detective staring at him. “You all right there? You look kinda dazed.”

Jim nodded and followed Harvey's finger with his eyes, indulging him for a moment before grabbing the back of his head and hauling him down to meet his lips. Harvey didn't hesitate long before letting himself be pulled into one of the slowest, hungriest kisses of his forty odd years. He had no qualms about the drunken factor; figured he may as well take advantage of what was likely his only chance at kissing the walking wet dream that was Jim Gordon. He tugged at Jim's bottom lip before he broke contact and touched his mouth, looking down at the blood on his fingers.

Jim looked as in shock as Harvey felt. “Maybe you should check for concussion again,” he said softly.

Harvey got up and shook his head, grabbing the cat that had found its way to Jim's lap. “Asshole.” He headed to his bedroom, grumbling and ignoring Jim's cheeky grin that made his stomach flip. “What did I do to deserve him,” he mumbled.

 


End file.
